


the hum of silence never seemed so far

by summerstorm



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Experimental, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kris walks into Adam's café in an effort to get away from his routine and stop dwelling on the end of a relationship. That's only the first step. <i>My Blueberry Nights</i> fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hum of silence never seemed so far

**Author's Note:**

> _My Blueberry Nights_ fusion. Sort of. It's been ages since I watched the movie, so a) you really don't need to have seen it to understand this, and b) don't expect this to be faithful to it. Thanks to for beta and "[Magic View](http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?zmmtojmjqwo)" by Diane Birch for the title. PS, the formatting was inspired by [this fantastic Generation Kill fic](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/545502.html).

Adam's replacing the leftover strawberry cheesecake in the display over the counter for a full freshly baked pie when the guy walks in.

Maybe 'walk in' is an overstatement. It looks much more as though he _stumbles_ in, not so much because he's tripped headfirst through the door but because something has compelled him to enter Adam's establishment and he's not entirely sure, even as he does, if it's the kind of instinct he should listen to.

Adam knows because that's how he feels when he steps into the guy du jour's apartment after going out drinking and, sometimes not very brightly, letting go, and because he still sometimes feels new here, and also because he owns a café in New York City.

From what Adam can tell, the guy's not a regular, but he's not a tourist. He's lost, but it's all in his own mind, his life, the intangible realization that it's not going where he always thought it would. The city, the neighborhood — all that he knows. Adam may not have seen him before, but the way he walks suggests he's not far from home, or at least not far from the bed he plans to sleep in tonight.

It's a relief. It wouldn't be the first time Adam's played tour guide to a customer — that's the thing that makes his café different, the attention, the personableness, his stupid propensity for caring too much about strangers — but it's late, only a couple of hours from closing time, and it's been a long day. He wants to go home and unwind. He doesn't want to drive someone for miles before realizing they can't specify a destination because they don't have one in mind, because they have no place to go.

On the other hand, he has nothing better to do than offer a slice of pie to someone who could use it.

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Kris does this thing where he tries to be honest with himself at all times. He also does this other thing where he never is when it matters, but he's working on that. It's not like he does it on purpose.

So, in retrospect, maybe storming out of his own apartment wasn't the best idea. And maybe leaving his car keys there wasn't either, because he can only go so far before he starts groaning at the thought of going _back_, and there are only so many places in the limited mile radius he can stretch his path of avoidance through right now where he hasn't been with Katy.

It's the sight of pie that brings him into this one. Katy hates pie — she says it reminds her of her mother's expectations for her, and how hard it is to break out of patriarchy-based habits and goals, and a bunch of other things Kris is sure are important, but he always zones out before she gets to them — and there's pie all over the window display. Katy wouldn't even breathe within six feet of the building.

So Kris walks in, and, who knows, maybe he misses his mom, or he wants to go back to that time where he didn't know irrational hatred of pastries was possible and avoid all this heartbreak, or he hasn't calmed down yet and is in that state of mind where he wants to differ just to be an ass, but it takes him all of a sniff of blueberry filling to decide pie is the thing that will save his life.  
  
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Adam's laugh bubbles out unexpectedly — it's not that he's used to faking it or anything, but he has to give himself a little push to laugh openly more often than not — and somewhat boisterously, and a couple of his regulars smile at him from a corner. Caring leads to caring: that's essentially the basis for Adam's entire life philosophy.

"I don't know if it wants you putting that kind of pressure on it," Adam says, "but it did save mine."

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Out of everything on display, there's only one kind of pie Kris has never tasted.

"Blueberry?" the guy behind the counter says. "Really?" He seems surprised.

Kris raises an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with blueberry?"

"Other than the fact that nobody ever orders it, not at all," the guy says, grinning. "I'm a blueberry fan myself."  
  
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Adam moved here from California four years ago, and he hasn't looked back. He knows it's a small thing to base your life around, but he's a pie-maker. He makes pie, and he finds the best beverages and side dishes to serve it with. He has conservative pies and original pies and pies he does once and never tries again. Not all of them are terrible. Some of them just go over people's noses or taste buds.

He's inordinately proud of his blueberry pie recipe, and always bakes it on Thursdays and Saturdays. It's sheer idealism, thinking he won't have to throw both away before the weekend has ended, but it's one of the little things that keep him sane. He doesn't do it for business or so customers will stroke his ego. He does it for himself.

It's important to keep yourself happy.

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It's not always blueberry. He tries the raspberry, and cappuccino fudge cheesecake, and sweet cherry pie, and they're all as good as the last, and all the exact pie he needs at a particular moment. The owner — whose name is Adam, Kris found out at the same time he found out Adam was the owner and not somebody working for somebody else — has a knack for reading Kris's face and figuring out what he wants before he knows he wants it.

Or maybe Kris's face is not that hard to read, but no one's ever bothered to predict his cravings before, so he can't know for sure.

But it's the blueberry that's always there, pieces of fruit occupying the right tray over the counter when there's no fresh pie to display. Just the flash of blue when he looks over is a relief, one thing he's not missing, one thing that's going to stay there, wait for him instead of bounce around the world hoping he'll catch it on its way down.  
  
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When the last customer of the evening pays for his meal and turns to leave, Kris tilts his head up thoughtfully and says, "A friend of Katy's offered me a job in Memphis. At first I thought it was a freaking joke and I'd be stupid to take it, but I think I could use a change of scenery. And, you know, I figure, she broke my heart, might as well let her pick up a few pieces."

Sometimes Kris stays around and helps him close up, so it's not surprising he's still here, but this is not only a ridiculously major statement to make when they're about to part ways, but also this is the first time Adam can remember he's referred to his ex-girlfriend by name. If Kris were asking for help or advice, he'd have done with more time to spare. Adam's best guess is Kris just made a decision on the spot, and is sharing it with himself.

"I could try to save up for a car. There's one I've always wanted to have, but I never saw how I'd get much use out of it living here."

Adam's not the bartender who moonlights as a therapist in this situation. He's either a bystander, or someone Kris trusts to talk him out of doing a crazy thing if it's a crazy thing he's planning to do.

He's not sure how a bystander acts.

"That sounds like a worthy goal," he ends up saying. "Want some pie for the road? I'll bake something good for you before you leave."

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Waiting tables is not a bad gig when your boss likes you and the place is respectable, but the paycheck is barely enough to cover his needs, so he does a few rounds and talks to a few people and ends up bartending for a place owned by a guy who always goes to Kris's other workplace for brunch on Fridays.

There's a fair bit of customer crossover between both places despite the fact that they're not even in the same neighborhood, and the first person Kris realizes he thinks of as kind of his friend frequents both of his work shifts. He works near the diner, around the corner, and he gets on stage on open mike night at the bar, and sometimes when the mike's not actually open, too.

He's an alright guy. And it's nice to know somebody.  
  
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Kris sends postcards from Memphis.

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_In case you were worrying (since that seems to be your thing), the job was a real job and I haven't found myself forced to take residence beneath a bridge. In fact, if I do lose my apartment, I've found someone who would let me crash on his couch. I think. I'm sure that's a relief to you. _  
---  
  
Adam doesn't believe Kris is really sure about that, but he should be. It's definitely a relief. Not that Adam thought Kris would somehow end up on the streets eating out of a trash can, but it's good to know he's settled in. It's good to know he can form a coherent message and address it to the right place. It's good to know he's not wallowing _all_ of the time.

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_His last break-up kind of puts mine into perspective. He almost got engaged to this girl who ran off a few months ago with an NFL player. She's on TV sometimes. That's gotta hurt. So we've bonded over being screwed over by women, and finding a kindred soul may or may not be keeping him from drowning his sorrows in Jack Daniel's. It could have been a different kindred soul, so I'm glad I got there first. His guitar collection is worth saying hello to. So is Memphis as a whole. I'm glad you didn't tell me not to come. I think I would have stayed back._  
---  
  
It's not a one-off. There are postcards where Kris waxes poetic about the weather, and postcards where there are no words. Postcards full of numbers, like they were the nearest piece of paper when Kris decided to check how close he was to the amount of money he needs to buy his car, and postcards containing one line about how he's trying to get blueberry pie on the menu at the place he works in during the day.

Most of them make Adam wonder when Kris is coming back. The last one makes Adam wonder if he's coming back to begin with.

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Kris is taking a couple of teenagers' inordinately detailed smoothie orders when a cute blonde girl his age walks in. She's fidgeting with her sleeves and looking around as though she can't decide whether to keep her head down or hold it high.

He knows where he's seen that face before.  
  
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The next postcard is from Vegas, which means the few times he's called restaurant after restaurant in Memphis have been good for nothing. At least now he knows better than to try.

He wishes Kris included an address or details of some sort about his location all the same every time he gets a postcard, just so Adam could talk back. Somewhere to address his own concerns about Kris to, even if Kris doesn't answer or even read them. Even a fake address would be better than this. He's always considered himself a good listener, but he's much, much better at listening when he knows the other person's going to allow him an opinion. And he's always been crap at waiting.

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It's not that Kris needs someone to be in the same boat as him, but someone who's gone through worse than he has getting his love life together gives him a little push to change directions, try something new. See where the road takes him.

The road takes him to a casino and a new job and more tables to wait, and a guy from Michigan with a pretty awesome car who's lost the last of his money and needs a loan to get it back.

Kris can draw a deal out of that, so he does. He lends the guy — Matt — money on this condition: if it pays off, Kris gets a third of the winnings. If it's lost, Kris gets the car.

What he gets is a lie and to play chauffeur for a day, until Matt realizes that car is the last thing his father's left him, and that's more important to him than handing off more money than the car's worth to the stranger who helped him win it.  
  
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It's fucking sad that the first thing Adam thinks when he gets a postcard from a little town he couldn't place on a map is if Kris keeps moving, maybe soon he'll start moving north.

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_Since the last postcard, I got a car. Twice. This second one? This is mine, and I'm keeping it._  
---  
  
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When Kris gets back to New York, his apartment is empty. The only trace Katy's left is a note and a telephone number. An apology, if he'll take it, and her best wishes.

He leaves his keys on a table they'd stored in the basement while Katy was living with him — a table she must have pulled up to replace the one he was never fond of — and, suddenly, he realizes he doesn't wish her any ill anymore.

Then, he steps into the shower and washes the remainder of his resentment off.  
  
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Adam takes longer closing up that night because he doesn't want Kris to go.

"I should have come back tomorrow," Kris says as Adam lingers on washing coffee off the leg of a table. "I've seen all the pie you have in here before."

Stepping back behind it, Adam leans over the bar with a slice of cheesecake on a plate in his hand. "Still blueberry. But people actually like it. I think they're just fooled by its creamy exterior and think there's no evil inside."

"I thought you said there was nothing inherently wrong with blueberry," Kris says. Adam's surprised he remembers that far back. Adam's surprised he remembers anything from that night at all, considering the mood Kris had been in, what he'd walked in on.

Kris lazily digs a finger into the cheesecake, not even bothering to ask for cutlery, and brings it into his mouth, narrowing his eyes.

The way he licks the cream off his finger is teasing. It's a show. There's no way it's not a show. Adam drags in a low stool and sits down, rests his head on his elbow over the bar, and watches intently. Maybe a little too intently. Kris doesn't seem to mind.

Adam doesn't know when he closes his eyes, but when he looks again, Kris is mirroring his position. Adam is eye-level with Kris's neck, the exposed stretch of his collarbones, and he has to make an effort to catch a glimpse of Kris's mouth, lips half open and a little swollen, glistening, and barely an inch away from his own.

"Hey," Kris says, the word a tingle over Adam's nose, and closes the distance.

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**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always loved, here or [on LJ](http://summerstorm.livejournal.com/381513.html). ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/280932) by [samanthahirr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr)




End file.
